


Revelations & Reconcilliations

by jbae654



Category: Bulma - Fandom, Dragon Ball, Dragon Ball Super, Vegeta - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 04:59:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jbae654/pseuds/jbae654
Summary: Guess who’s back, back again, Frieza’s back, tell a friend .. This one-shot focuses on Vegeta’s possible reaction and internal turmoil to finding out that Frieza will participate in the tournament.  Trying to remain close to Super while not completely butchering it, there are some developments that are strictly made up by me and @amazingmeplusone (from Tumblr) and how we imagine things could go.





	1. Revelations

“And with Buu asleep, we need someone really strong, like Frieza!”

The feeling that had followed this statement had easily made it Kakarot’s most devastating blow, both in and outside of the battlefield. Having grown in power beyond even his own wildest dreams the battleground had been set evenly these past few long month, a feeling he had grown accustomed too. Foolishly believing that Kakarot’s devastating blows to his pride had finally ceased to exist. His brain having officially checked out, the only word tumbling past his lips was a rather uneven “NO”.

His disgraceful shaky declaration was followed by another devastating blow; the clown’s nonsensical laugh and his claim that this would be _fun_ , because Frieza “is a strong guy and this time he’s on our side”, making Vegeta’s alarm bells ring in warlike glory. White hot fury blazed through his veins in a way he had not experienced since learning of the destruction of his planet, since his first devastating defeat on earth, since learning that Kakarot had failed to kill Frieza on Namek, since said monsters last torture session. He had fought too hard to now bow his head to the whims of a third class warrior and fight along his tormentor for _‘fun_ ’, with weak conviction he held his breath and counted to ten, a trick he often employed in an attempt not to lose his temper when Trunks was stretching his nerves as thin as paper by breaking the rules, trying to reign the fire blazing in his veins.

Under no uncertain terms, he made it clear that he was _not_ participating should Frieza become a part of their team, he was not needed. The loss of Buu was unfortunate but he was confident that they could still win, who cared if they were one participant short, it was only a tournament orchestrated for the amusement for those above them. As usual, it was the idiots face that gave him away, transparent like glass, alerting him that a vital piece of information was being kept from him, making the pit in his stomach intensify while adding a few logs to the anger boiling inside of him. While he would never admit out loud, the birth of Bra had grounded him more than anything else in his life before, finally and fully proving to him the power that lay within starting over; that he had made the right choice. He had endured Kakarot’s constant nagging and interference to come train, mentally disregarding it as the clown’s inability to even comprehend that things other than training existed in this world. He had endured everyone’s intrusion in their private moments and the rushed birth of his daughter, all the while apparently kept in the dark like a fool. The knowledge that everything was very likely at risk, everything he had _painstakingly built,_ had him riding the edge of murdering the brainless idiot on the spot. His explosive temper had Kakarot, quite literally, by the collar of his Gi within seconds, proclaiming homicidal wishes that had lain dormant for almost too long, and ultimately obtaining the missing information within seconds.  

By the time his brain had fully processed the incoming information and the weight of the consequences had sunk in, hitting him like a hammer to a landmine, his murderous rage had changed to what could only be described as the edge of sanity. A frenzied laugh was bubbling in his throat when the realization struck him that the brainless fool had started a _multi-universal genocide,_ now even exceeding him in the only sphere he had initially left over him; death and destruction.  

These events had let him here, the roof of the compound where he could mull over the flood of information and the turmoil of heated emotions in peace. The idea that this whole Universe could cease to exist made his chest ache painfully, he had lost his home world and after spending his miserable youth among the stars, believing it to be all his life would ever measure up to, he had stumbled across this mudball. With inhabitants so puny in strength and ignorant to the overabundance of water, that it had made him almost hell bent on wiping them all out just to punish them for their incomprehension. In the end, the seemingly impossible had happened and this world had become his home, the home of his two children, who turned out to give his life more meaning than his teenage self could have ever presumed achievable when dreaming of a life after Frieza. And that was precisely where his problem lay, despite all the riches of his current life, he would never, could never, fight on _any_ side that included Frieza.

The man that had treated him like a _trophy_. A sight to behold, to be dragged out and showcased, the Saiyan Prince one among the last of his race, powerful enough to destroy worlds, yet nothing but a mere _toy_ in the hands of Frieza. Shown off during his illustrious feasts and hated and beaten any other minute of his existence because, while amused by Vegeta, Frieza also hated him. Waving his father’s death in his face at every turn, reminding him of the failures of the man that was supposed to protect him, but had seemingly traded and abandoned him with as much consideration as he would give the sale or acquisition of a new concubine. Reminding him of the failed rebellion of his people, how they had perished together with his world before even laying a finger on his ship. Laughing in his face whenever he failed one of the monsters ridiculous tests, whenever Zarbon or Dodoria were stronger than him, leaving him to suffer in pain without a regeneration tank for days on end, claiming to teach him about _the pains of life_. Intruding on his privacy and feeding his constant paranoia by keeping strict surveillance on him, in the end turning him against everyone, making him isolate himself and playing directly in the Villain’s hands.

He had been robbed of his revenge, and his pride would not allow him to become a teammate to the source of all his anguish, to all his loss, to all that should rightfully have been his. Millions of Saiyans would roll over in their graves, his useless father included, if they were to ever hear that their promised savior ended up a slave, failed to free himself, failed to exact revenge, and then proceeded to settled for being comrades with the origin of their demise. Whatever was left of his pitiful dark soul burned simply by thinking about seeing Frieza and not destroying him, whether he be alive or already dead. It was that very same tiny shred of soul he had that ached and burned when thinking about standing by idly, not participating in the tournament and leaving the fate of his family in the hands of a brainless third class and his former tormentor. This was an impossible decision he could not make, both sides requiring him to _sacrifice more than he could give._

Tears of frustration burned white and hot behind his closed eyelids, tears he had not cried in a very long time. Born from being cornered, not given a choice, his Saiyan powers useless and unable to save him from the emotional turmoil threatening to tear him apart. Back then no matter what he did, how he decided, it was wrong, led to consequences and punishment, making him second guess himself at every turn, demanding more and more of the person he was, and leaving him in cold sweat and stinging tears at the realization that he was not, would never be, _enough._ The majority of them had been shed in his space pod, safe from the sucking void and vacuum of space, as well as far away from Frieza. A microscopic space in the never-ending vastness of the universe in which his teenage self-found refuge.

Desperation about his indecision was clawing and gnawing at his chest with such ferocity that it made his chest tighten and his tail scare tingle, once again he was _not enough_. It was robbing his lungs of precious oxygen, and he listlessly acknowledged that he was gracing the edge of what Bulma had once referred to as a panic attack. But before it could fully sink its claws into him and wash over him a conversation from the large main patio gripped his attention so solidly that he could do little but observe as his rational and inquisitive nature took control again, leaving him focused on the words being spoken below.

“I had warned you that this might happen, my Lord, it was only a matter of time before Vegeta would figure out that we had withheld the truth, as a contestant he had a right to know.”

Whis was standing with his back to the compound, likely taking a small walk before dinner,  _staying over again_ , and clearly trying to calm an upset Lord Beerus over what he could only assume was Kakarot divulging the truth about the tournament to him.

“Perhaps you should consider telling him about your employment of Frieza and your orders of the destruction of the planet, I can only assume that Frieza will let this information slip during the tournament, we both know his sense of entertainment an-..”

It was as far as Whis made it before he found Vegeta on the ground before them, his body having moved before his brain had even registered the weight of what he had just overheard. If Kakarot’s confession early in the evening had lit a white-hot fury in his veins then Whis words, and the meaning behind them, made his vision _bleed red_. His Oozaru clawing at his senses with an intensity that he feared his brain might leak out of his ears. Hands clenched into tight fists shaking with rage. On the edge of his awareness, he faintly noted his own erratic breathing and the presence of Bulma shooing Trunks back into the safety of the compound, before his single-minded focus fully latched onto the God of destruction himself.  
  
_To be continued ...._


	2. Reconcilliations

The element of surprise on his side, his hand found purchase on the God’s upper arm allowing a single violent shake, accompanied by a wave of words underlining his acrimony. He did not care about the destruction they were causing upon the patio when Beerus untangled himself from him and went on the defense. He did not care about the small group of people who bore witness to his past as he hurled insults and accusations, accompanied by the gruesome details of his time under Frieza, across the small leeway that was separating them. His nerve endings were raw, burning through the circuits of his body in an all-consuming flame that licked his own skin with the dangerous promise to burn himself to ashes should it continue. The rushing of his blood in his own ears was deafening, reminding him of a life so long ago, a life in which the deafening roar of his own pulse could only be extinguished by the blood and screams of someone else. They could all die, likely even would die, soon anyways. Erased from existence like they had never even mattered, like his race. To him there was no fathomable reason not to give into this rage, die in a last desperate attempt to revenge _his_ people. Shifting his weights to the balls of his feet and preparing himself his senses suddenly alerted him to a blur of green to his side.

“Vegeta don’t.”

Piccolo’s voice was deep and steady, eyes locked so firmly with his own that he could not deny the soothing waves of calm the Namekian seemed to exude. His Ki was steady, suddenly making Vegeta overly aware of how erratic his own fluctuated, only underlined by the faint, but clearly wild signatures coming from inside the compound.

“Shut it Namekian, you know nothing”

His voice came out in pants, breathing still labored, but Piccolo held his gaze, he knew that he did not have to explain to him what was at risk, what the calm and logical course of action should be. He knew that Vegeta was a tactician, that we would not forgive himself if he foolishly attacked in a wild rage when a calculated approach could grant victory. Releasing a long breath, regaining control of his sizzling Ki and the wild uproar of his Oozaru he realized that his uncontrolled ascension to God form had singed the patio quite badly, and only seemed to outline the magnitude of the mistake he had _almost_ committed. He had last lost control like this when he was a mere child. Giving the God of Destruction one last look he turned on his heels and disappeared inside, walking past his Wife who had just bore witness to the horrors of his childhood in a grotesque pre-dinner showdown, his feet taking him to the only room in the compound he knew no one would follow him to ask questions. The Bedroom.

The cold water of the shower decisively curbed his rage, his mind previously clouded by heated emotions became clear and sharp again, grateful for the interference of the green sprout. Vegeta ran through his routine on autopilot, drying off, selecting a pair of sweatpants, before taking a seat in one of the two cushioned chairs in the bedroom and facing it towards the big window.   
His gaze settled on the few stars that shone bright enough to be seen despite the city lights. Feeling drained from the sudden rise and fall of so much anger, energy and lastly emotions he had to begrudgingly admit that he still was no closer to a decision. An impossible decision, one he truly couldn’t make. The restrictive feeling within his chest returning with vengeance, reminding him again of how useless all his power was in this situation, clearly the gods were _already_ punishing him for all the aristocracies he had committed in his life. Maybe this was the price he had to pay for his past deeds, getting the illusion of a stable life of freedom, a life worth living, filled with people who saw him as a person, not a toy, a monster, a murdered.   
  
Vegeta would forever be unable to tell how much time passed before the soft opening and shutting of the bedroom door interrupted his desperate mental fight against panic and despair. Bulma’s soft footsteps could be heard before she came into view and settled silently on the floor beside his chair, after leaving a plate of food and a full glass of wine on the small table. Her gaze settled on the view of the city, the lights reflections dancing in her blue eyes, and to his _great_ surprise, she remained quiet, allowing his own surveying watch to return to the view outside the glass.

“He did not leave”

Her voice was a whisper so soft Vegeta had to strain his ears to hear it, and his eyebrows crinkled in confusion, just what was this woman on about.

“What?”

“Your father. You told Beerus that he abandoned you with Frieza and that he had to go and ruin it all even more with…. you know. You should know he did not abandon you, he came back.”

“Listen, Bulma” his voice a snarl more intense than he himself had anticipated “you know nothing, I do not wish to talk and you need to shut up.”

That caused her to turn, impossibly blue eyes finding his dark venomous gaze in the dark room, and her hand finding his thigh in a soft and reassuring gesture that almost made him growl.

“This I _do_ know. Whis told me after I told that overgrown kitty just where to shove it. Nobody mooches of _my_ hospitality and pulls such crap.”

The smile she gave him was filled to the brim with love and reassurance and he had to avert his gaze in order to better focus on his own suddenly muddled thoughts. While certainly placating and soothing, the knowledge of his father’s deed came almost too late, it could do little to fill the gaping whole of abandonment that had festered his entire life, it could do little to help him make _this_ choice. A small pressure on his thigh brought him back to reality, seeing Bulma watching him, softly squeezing his leg to gain his attention.

“If it’s not that, what is troubling you so much hon?”

She was hoping for him to let her in, but the words and explanations were stuck in his throat. Eyes trailing back to the stars outside he tried to focus on something else than her hopeful eyes and soft touch, while her presence was calming and reassuring, it only intensified his inner turmoil. Not fighting would mean letting her down, and he had promised himself, and her, after Buu that things would be different. But accepting the presence of Frieza as his teammate meant sacrificing the man he _truly_ was deep down.  

“I can’t do it”

“The tournament?”

He could only nod, not even taking his eyes of the city view. “Instead of Buu, it will be Frieza.” He eventually elaborated as the silence stretched between them and he could all but hear the wheels in her head turning trying to construct possibilities and reasons. At his words, her eyes snapped up to him, wide with shock but also a sense of sudden understanding. The quiet stretched on for a few additional minutes and he watched as her shock turned into understanding, then anger and finally realization.

“The tournament has consequences that I don’t know about?”

Again he could only nod, sometimes she was too intelligent for her own good and he silently prayed to the Gods of Vegetasei that she would _not_ press him for details. It would only open another round of questions he was not ready to answer or even think about. The pressure on his thigh increased and he had to fight the urge to take her small hand into his, she suddenly looked worried, no doubt conjuring up all kind of horrible consequences.

“You can not _not_ partake because of the consequences, but you also can _not_ partake because you would be on Frieza’s side.” she summarized, looking at his face, certainly finding the answer she was looking for upon it. Bulma had an eerie ability to read him and right now he was thankful for it. Being forced to explain himself and the situation would only lead to further the constricting feeling in his chest that seemed to have taken hold of him, and made his home there forever. She stood, retrieving the covered plate of food and placing it carefully in her lap.

“I trust you, whatever you decide will be the right thing”

She continued without looking at him, instead uncovering the plate to reveal an assortment of sushi, and proceeded to pop a piece into her mouth, eyes fixing on the window again before offering him a piece of sushi as well. He accepted silently, his brain suddenly too exhausted to form proper words, and choosing to focus on the only thing that seemed simple; _food._

“You are free of Frieza. You have been for a long time. The fact that he was chosen -as a backup might I add-  to come back and help you save what I can only presume is the world, or the universe, before going back to hell like the bastard he his, well in my eyes, that kind of makes him _your_ Bitch. Don’t you think?”

At that Vegeta could only chuckle low in his throat, her logic was backward, but the sentiment amused him greatly. It did not take away from the price this decision required him to pay or the hit his pride would likely take, but as Bulma handed him another piece of Sushi followed by the glass of wine, he accepted that as a warrior, decisions like these would be prone to keep occurring throughout his life. And he would make _damn sure_ they all had an actual life to live.


End file.
